


Cake is the Language of Love

by Kylie



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Baking, Humor, M/M, Napoleon bakes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-28
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-04-23 19:38:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4889563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kylie/pseuds/Kylie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon finds out that Illya's favorite cake is called 'Napoleon', a cake which is very popular in Russia. Napoleon is delighted and not above finding a way to Peril's heart through his stomach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cake is the Language of Love

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Торт - язык любви](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4933309) by [faikit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/faikit/pseuds/faikit)



It started with an eclair. 

They were in Paris, chasing after some diamond thieves, and Napoleon got a box of eclairs on a whim. Gaby was off flirting with the criminal boss's brother, while Illya and Napoleon were stuck doing some rather tedious reconnaissance. Not that Napoleon minded spending some time alone with his Russian partner. Ever the optimist he was still hoping to penetrate Peril’s gruff demeanor, worm his way into his good graces… and other more interesting places.

After planting bugs in the hotel the syndicate was going to be meeting at that night, they split up and arrived at their stakeout separately. Illya was first, because Napoleon had stopped for a few minutes at a boulangerie to get the aforementioned eclairs. 

"What is that?" Illya demanded with his habitual ill temper when Napoleon produced the white paper box from his backpack, which was supposed to solely contain equipment. 

Instead of replying Napoleon opened the box, showing its sweet contents to Illya. 

"Now is not the time!" Illya hissed. They were crouched on the roof of the building opposite the hotel, effectively hidden from view by some rose bushes the residents were cultivating there. 

"Oh come on, Peril," Napoleon said, "live a little. It's France, they have the best pastries here."

"Best pastry is in Russia," Illya replied predictably.

"Yeah, yeah," Napoleon said, he'd stopped acknowledging most of Illya's patriotic claims months ago, having grown bored of needling the Russian about them. "Go on, have one," Napoleon said instead, taking an eclair for himself and offering the box to Illya.

Illya looked at it, seemed to hesitate, then picked one out and took a bite. His face lit up for a moment, like he'd taken a bite of paradise. Napoleon stared transfixed and vividly imagined other circumstances under which such blatant pleasure could be written on Illya’s face. But Illya frowned again abruptly, no doubt remembering Napoleon's presence.

"You definitely look like you’re enjoying it,” Napoleon picked his mind out of the gutter and affected a grin, biting into his own treat and hummed in pleasure. "Delicious."

Illya didn't reply and finished his eclair in silence, his tongue darting out to lick chocolate glaze off his lips in a decidedly appealing manner.

Napoleon turned his binoculars on the hotel entrance and surveyed it for a while, until out of the corner of his eye he saw Illya stretch his hand out towards the box and snatch another eclair.

“Is that a sweet tooth I’m detecting, Peril?” Napoleon lowered his binoculars to look at his partner, who glared back, more pissed off than usual. But what’s that, were there hints of red on Illya’s cheeks? 

“Oh it is, isn’t it?” Napoleon was probably much more excited than the revelation really warranted, but big bad Peril craving some chocolate eclairs and being totally embarrassed about it was too funny to ignore.

“Why haven’t I noticed before?” Napoleon lamented, thinking of all the times he could’ve plied Illya with sweets.

“Because you’re a terrible spy,” Illya said dryly and now licked the chocolate glaze off his fingers. Napoleon almost forgot to be offended and wondered if he could get Illya to lick some buttercream or something off Napoleon’s fingers. It was hard lusting after your partner, much harder when your partner was one tough rage-filled giant, and much harder still when you were increasingly managing to find things about him that were sweet. Napoleon groaned inwardly. At least Illya and Gaby weren’t an issue anymore. It seemed she was much more excited to be learning the ropes of the international spy business than romancing her Russian colleague, who looked to be surprisingly ok with that.

“Yes, I should’ve seen it earlier,” Napoleon continued, “all those Turkish delights you were consuming in Istanbul.”

“I only tried a few!” the tone of Illya’s voice suggested Napoleon was playing with fire. “And get back to work already!” 

"What's you favorite kind of cake?" Napoleon asked, mostly because he couldn’t leave well enough alone and because he was apparently fixated on the subject of Illya and sweets.

"Napoleon," Illya said and instantly glared at the American so fiercely it would’ve left a lesser man paralyzed with terror.

But Napoleon just asked, "What?" Illya never called him by his first name.

Illya huffed and turned away and Napoleon knew him well enough by now to detect hints of embarrassment still lingering underneath that deadly façade.

"This cake is popular in Russia, called Napoleon," Illya said curtly and stared intently through his own binoculars as if the sight of the hotel across the road held the answers to all the mysteries of the universe.

Napoleon's face split up in a grin so wide his cheeks hurt. A thousand lines of shameless innuendo jumped around his head and it took a Herculean effort to keep them to himself. "I think I need to try that so aptly named… delight."

"It’s only good in Russia,” Illya mumbled, “no one else makes it right.”

To Napoleon it just sounded like a challenge.

Signs of activity from the hotel doors interrupted them, and they ducked lower behind the rose bushes. Napoleon was already making plans.

***

"Sanders," Napoleon said evenly into the telephone. 

"Solo," Sanders answered, managing to convey all his disdain in a single word, "wasn't expecting you to call. Isn't Mr. Waverly taking good care of you?"

"Absolutely, sir, the best," Napoleon made sure to project his best chipper tone.

"Are you in trouble, Solo?" Sanders said unpleasantly. "If you're expecting the CIA to bail you out..."

"After all my good work for you," Napoleon interrupted, fed up with Sanders in under a minute. He screwed his eyes shut, glad that his former boss could not see him. He was back in his apartment in New York and all ready to put his brilliant plan into action. Unfortunately it involved talking to bloody Sanders. "I was hoping for a small favor."

"What type of favor?" Sanders turned all business.

"I need a Russian woman, preferable over 50," Napoleon said without inflection. 

"Your tastes seem to have changed, Solo," Sanders observed wryly.

"I need a recipe from her," Napoleon explained, failing not to sound somewhat embarrassed.

"You do know that you're calling the CIA, right, Solo?" Sanders enquired slowly, clearly in doubt of Napoleon's mental faculties.

“I do,” Napoleon sighed, “and I know you maintain some contacts with your colleagues from beyond the Iron Curtain, so if it’s not too much trouble…” Napoleon trailed off.

“I am intrigued,” Sanders prompted, and Napoleon launched into a deliberately vague explanation of what it was he actually needed.

***

Next morning Napoleon was woken up by the ringing of his phone. 

"Hello," Napoleon answered trying to stifle a yawn.

"Алло, меня зовут Нина (1)," said a friendly female voice on the other end of the line. "Эдриан сказал моему мужу, что вам нужен рецепт торта Наполеон (2)."

"Да да (3)," Napoleon confirmed, waking up enough to marshal his Russian skills. And was this… Nina was it? He rubbed his eyes with one hand, Sanders was kidding him. Had he really passed Napoleon’s request to the wife of Illya’s former handler?

"Возьмите бумагу и записывайте (4)," said Nina, "мой муж и дети в восторге от этого рецепта (5)." But she was a Russian woman, of some fifty years of age, Napoleon expected, and that was ideal, since he wanted the recipe from someone of Illya’s mother’s generation.

"Спасибо, госпожа... товарищ... Нина (6)," stuttered Napoleon. He still had no idea of Oleg’s and by extension his wife’s surname. 

But Mrs. Soviet Handler didn't seem to mind, as she waited for Napoleon to get pen and paper and proceeded to explain him the recipe in thorough detail.

***

Napoleon was a good cook, his general enthusiasm towards the finer things in life translated well into his experiments in the kitchen. He didn’t bake that often, but those who tried his cakes before assured him they were quite exquisite. And he thought they were, even if he did make sure at least one bottle of wine had been consumed by the time he served dessert.

But this time he took extra care to follow Nina’s instructions to the letter, after all he was not above finding a way to Peril’s heart through his stomach. Vanity played its role too, of course, the cake that bore his name had to be perfect.

Napoleon planned the day well. He received Nina’s phone call on Thursday and decided to try it the very next day. They were between missions, settling into their New York HQ. Gaby and Illya had been provided with apartments, but they were still new and unlived in, so they usually got together at Napoleon’s place. So Napoleon invited them both to dinner Friday night, only he did make sure that it was the night Gaby would already have plans. Not that she needed any help getting dates, but he had given things a nudge in the right direction this time. So Gaby was going out to see a Broadway musical with one of their New York UNCLE colleagues and declined Napoleon’s invitation. And that just left him and Illya. Napoleon had been expecting to have to employ all his powers of persuasion to get Illya to spend an evening alone with him, but he actually agreed pretty easily.

Having secured the date for tonight, Napoleon set to cooking. 

So cake Napoleon. Illya’s favorite cake. Was that a good sign? True, Illya didn’t call him by his first name (no one did, except his mother who had come up with it), but did he subconsciously associate Napoleon Solo with cake? Probably not, but Napoleon refused to give up hope. He would prove to Peril that Napoleon the man could be as delicious as Napoleon the cake.

The cake itself was a variation of the French Mille-Feuille recipe, but with enough differences to keep things interesting. The pastry itself was easy enough, he just had to make sure he rolled all the many layers out to equal size and thickness. But the cream was much harder. He had to pour sweet egg mixture into the milk he had heated up on the stove very slowly and keep mixing it vigorously the whole time unless he wanted to end up with a saucepan full of scrambled eggs. Once that was successfully done he flexed the muscles of his arm and added some butter and vanilla to the cream. Napoleon licked the spoon he had been using to mix it all and nodded to himself. The cream was simple, sweet and thick enough to spread. And there was a lot of it. 

He let the pastry and cream cool down while he threw together a simple dinner. He didn’t want to overwhelm Peril, Napoleon the cake was what was supposed to stand out. 

Finally he assembled it, spreading a thick layer of cream between each pastry sheet. Some of it trickled over the sides, but Nina had assured him that was supposed to happen and that way the pastry was going to soak the cream better. He spread the final layer on top and decorated it with crumbs from one of the pastry sheets (the one that had turned out the darkest brown, as Nina had instructed). 

Napoleon looked at the Napoleon on his counter. It looked like a neat little hillock of sand, with cream dripping off the sides. He had used a lot and still managed to have some cream left over in the big mixing bowl. Well, now he just had to hope it tasted Russian enough, having been made by an American in his New York kitchen.

*** 

It was a couple of hours before Illya was due to arrive, when someone rang the doorbell. 

Napoleon was a professional, so he grabbed the gun he had hidden in one of the kitchen cupboards, cocked it and went up to stand against the wall to the right of his door. "Yes?" he called.

"It's Illya," came a tight voice from outside.

Napoleon frowned, Illya was way too early, but it was definitely his voice, so Napoleon risked standing against the door to peer into the peephole. It was Illya indeed, but the problem was he looked like he usually did when on the verge of one of his episodes. Good Lord, what had brought that on? Napoleon hid the gun under his apron and opened the door. He honestly didn't think the Russian's barely controlled rage was directed at himself. He couldn't have been more wrong.

As soon as he had swung the door open Illya advanced on him, eyes wide and jaw set. The gun beneath Napoleon's apron seemed suddenly too far away.

"You were talking to Oleg," Illya growled out and slammed the door shut behind him. He looked like he was barely restraining himself from grabbing Napoleon into a headlock. "Why?"

That was something Napoleon hadn't counted on - Peril's paranoia and love of listening devices.

"Now, look here..." Napoleon tried, "it's not what you think...."

"And what do I think?"

"Well, that I talked to Oleg," Napoleon said, "and I didn't, I have actually never spoken to Oleg except that one time in Berlin." And he wasn't even lying, he hadn't talked to Oleg, only to Mrs. Oleg!

"Except that phone call at 8:02 yesterday morning, when someone called your apartment from his number,” Illya said in a flat tone of voice that boded nothing good for Napoleon. “You want to tell me it wasn’t him?”

Right, so Peril had traced the call but hadn't actually heard it. Napoleon wondered how he could turn that to his advantage. Nothing was coming to mind, especially with the sight of Peril's huge fists starting to shake slightly at his sides.

Truth then? Damn it, he'd had the evening so well planned. 

"It wasn’t him. It was his wife,” Napoleon sighed, he had so been looking forward to his surprise. And now he was more likely than not going to get punched for his trouble. 

"His wife?" Illya managed to sound enraged and skeptical at the same time. “You expect me to believe you are now carrying out telephone affairs with the wives of KGB agents?”

“I guess I should be flattered you think I could pull it off,” Napoleon smirked, but Illya advanced another step and Napoleon raised his hands, “But no, of course not! I called Sanders first and he got Oleg's wife to share a recipe with me, because they are such good friends or something.”

“Recipe?” Illya who had been oozing rage from his pores suddenly looked so comically confused that only Napoleon's deeply ingrained sense of self-preservation prevented him from laughing out loud.

Well, the game was up anyway. So Napoleon started walking towards the kitchen, making sure Illya was following him.

“Solo,” Illya all but snarled, his confusion quick to give way back to anger, “I do not appreciate this whole…” And then Illya saw the cake sitting there on the kitchen table. 

“Surprise. I guess,” Napoleon said sheepishly.

Illya ignored him and slowly walked up to the table to peer closely at the cake, looking somewhat lost. “You made Napoleon cake,” he said finally, “for me?”

“Yes,” Napoleon replied, “I got the recipe from Nina.”

Suddenly Illya turned around, realization spreading slowly across his face. “You made me my favorite cake.” It wasn’t a question, but Napoleon nodded anyway. “The one that has your ridiculous name.”

Napoleon glared indignantly, “It’s a very distinguished name, I’ll have you know.”

“For a cake,” Illya deadpanned and stepped closer, right into Napoleon’s personal space. “Tell me, are you trying to seduce me with baked goods?”

Napoleon just stared for a moment and then his face split into a grin, “Yes,” he said, “is it working?”

“I’ll tell you when I try my cake,” Illya said and turned back to the table. He took a fork and plunged it right into the cake, pulling off a large helping and stuffing it into his mouth.

“Mmmmmm,” the many times Napoleon had fantasized about making Illya come that was the kind of noise he had imagined him making. “Napoleon…”

“Yes,” Napoleon sounded a little out of breath even to his own ears.

Illya looked down at him. "I am talking to the cake, Cowboy. Or do you like it when I say..." he paused deliberately and said slowly in that deep, accented baritone, "Napoleon."

Napoleon swallowed. "It seems like I do."

“Well, this Napoleon,” Illya indicated the cake with his fork, “is almost as good as in Russia…”

“Almost?” Napoleon managed some indignation.

“…now let me try this one,” Illya finished, discarded the fork and planted a lingering kiss on Napoleon’s lips.

Illya tasted so sweet and kissed with such singular intent, Napoleon entirely forgot to be smug about how well his seduction plan had worked out, despite the fact that they never even got to sit down to dinner and hadn’t consumed a single drop of wine.

Illya finally pulled away, but kept his hand on the back of Napoleon’s neck, Napoleon had no desire whatsoever to step away. “Well?” he said and looked Illya straight in those blue eyes. “How does this Napoleon compare?”

“Can’t tell, I think I’d need to sample him further,” Illya said and made a show of laying a series of open-mouthed kisses on Napoleon’s neck.

“This is the best idea you’ve had in months, Peril,” Napoleon concurred breathlessly, “I still have some of that pastry cream left. Think we can find a use for it?”

By the way Illya’s breath hitched and his hands tightened on Napoleon’s forearms he could think of a few. “I’m sure we can, my sweet… Napoleon.”

**Author's Note:**

> Translations from Russian:
> 
> (1) Hello, my name is Nina.  
> (2) Adrian told my husband that you need a recipe for cake Napoleon.  
> (3) Yes, yes.  
> (4) Take a piece of paper and write it down.  
> (5) My husband and children love this recipe.  
> (6) Thank you, Mrs... Comrade... Nina.


End file.
